


Spilt Milk

by bloodscout



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:56:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had always hated buying milk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilt Milk

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my old pieces. Enjoy!

John had always hated buying milk. If ‘hated’ was too strong a term, perhaps he just strongly disliked it. It was so fraught with danger and potential mess, especially with the company John had been keeping since he returned to London. There was the daunting task of choosing a brand and variety, an act made more difficult by Sherlock’s picky eating habits. There was the possibility that if John bought the wrong milk, his flat mate would not eat for three days afterwards, even if the offending milk was switched for another variety. There was the possibility the carton might burst on the way home, creating embarrassment and a mess on the concrete. John didn’t find it so far-fetched anymore that a pissed off criminal and his gun would make neat work of his groceries one day and saturate the shopping. The danger increased tenfold when John and his milk entered the front door of 221b. You see, the average person only has to buy milk once a week, maybe once a fortnight if they are particularly savvy and buy two cartons at a time. A year ago, John didn’t have to buy milk at all – no-one had milk in their tea in the army. Since his discharge, John has had to buy milk not every two weeks, but every two days. This, of course, had nothing to do with John and everything to do with Sherlock.

John never quite knew exactly what happened to the milk when it went missing. To tell the truth, most of the time he didn’t have the stomach to ask. He didn’t need to know why the milk was poured down the sink, why it was left on the table or why it was returned to the fridge with ‘Contains Fingers’ kindly Sharpie-d over the best before date.

John closed his eyes when he threw that one in the bin.

John didn’t know why it was always milk. Why not eggs, or bread, or tea? John shivered at the thought of Sherlock eradicating all the tea. They practically lived on it.

On Thursday afternoon, when John had spent a particularly grueling day at the clinic, he was looking forward to a hot cup of tea with a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk, but the milk was lying on the bench, a strangely congealed substance dripping out of the spout and onto the floor.  
John exhaled loudly, squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose before yelling out ‘Sherlock! The milk!’  
Sherlock craned his neck over the armrest of his daytime haunt and John wondered how long his neck actually was. With his windpipe in such an awkward position, a raising of the eyebrow sufficed in conveying his disinterest. To John, it looked like a caterpillar was falling off his face and onto the ground.  
‘I bought new milk yesterday. What happened?’ John asked as he stomped across to the room in order to stand over the man on the lounge. Height was an advantage John rarely had over anyone and he was reveling in the power it gave him.  
Sherlock realized that he needed words to reply to this more demanding question, so he straightened his neck until it resembled a piece of  
human anatomy rather than a reptilian one, and replied with ‘I used it.’  
John’s hands, which had been around his chest, dropped to the floor with considerable force. Sherlock flinched, not out of fear, but due to years of experience in hand to hand combat. He waited until John’s angry huffs of breath evened out, which took at least two minutes. This level of tact was entirely necessary – he had no desire to be hit whilst he was in such a compromised position, and he desired the taunts Anderson would no doubt provide even less. His pale cheekbones bruised so easily that it was a surprise he was not a walking purple blotch. Though not really, given the aforementionedexperience in such matters.  
‘I wanted to see how many household items could be used to cover the smell of decay. Milk didn’t.’  
John silently thanked God that Sherlock found something to mask the smell – no milk was better than a kitchen that smelt like rotting flesh.  
‘Why always milk, though?’ He didn’t ask ‘why not tea’ because John wanted to retain some of his sanity.  
‘Everyone had milk.’  
‘Everyone has bread, too.’ Bad idea. John wouldn’t be eating toast for the next few weeks.  
‘Different bread, though. White, wholemeal, multigrain. Milk is always the same.’  
John realized that Sherlock had never bought milk for himself. He had no idea how many different types of milk there were. John didn’t know whether he should feel sorry for the detective and the knowledge he was missing out of, or if he should be grateful that he didn’t have to buy five different types of milk three times a week.  
John shook his head, giving up on his flate mate for the fourth time in as many days. He had also seen the red flashing light on the phone and turned his attention to the messages. The first one way from Lestrade, so he didn’t pay much attention. He knew Sherlock had heard it, so didn’t bother replaying it to write down the address or any other important details. The next message was more of a shock than the buried boxes and ears Lestrade had mentioned before.  
‘Hello, Johnny dear. We heard you got a flat, Harry told us, and we thought we’d wait until you were settled in to check up on you. We’d-’  
John ended the message there, but didn’t delete it. He’d prefer to listen to it when Sherlock wasn’t lying on the couch, dissecting every word.  
‘That was my mother.’  
‘Obviously.’  
John opened his mouth, then closed it again. Sherlock didn’t need the indulgence of explaining his deductive processes. At least, not today.  
‘Don’t you want to go see them?’  
Ah, of course. There was something Sherlock couldn’t understand. John’s family was dysfunctional at the best of times, but Sherlock’s family probably all belonged in an asylum, if Mycroft was anything to go by. John may have found his family unbearable, but, as far as he knew, Harry hadn’t offered to pay Sherlock for spying on him, so they couldn’t be that bad. John could stand being with his parents for a few days, couldn’t he?  
‘I think I might.’ He concluded, and went to his room, even though it was only seven o’clock.

Two days after they had solved the case Lestrade had called about, John got on a train to Kent and left Sherlock alone in the flat for five days. There was enough food in the fridge, though John doubted Sherlock would eat much of it. As a precaution, John made sure he ate something before he left.

The first day was fine, but on the second day, Sherlock realized that there was no milk. That day was spent on the couch, thinking of ways to get milk without leaving the flat. He asked Mrs. Hudson if he could borrow some of her milk, but that was met with the reply of ‘I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.’

The third day employed a different tactic. On the third day, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that he didn’t _need_ milk.

Sherlock spent a fair portion of the fourth day at Tesco, where he stood in front of the milk fridge for three hours. There were so many different types – lactose free, 99% fat free, calcium enriched – the list goes on. A shop assistant, who had been watching Sherlock for several minutes, shuffled up to him and asked if he needed assistance.  
‘I’m trying to buy milk.’ Sherlock said through gritted teeth.  
The shop assistant looked at him for a few moments, then shuffled off again.  
What milk did John buy? He’d noticed before, but deleted it, it wasn’t particularly important. He knew the milk Eddie van Coomb bought, he could still remember, but he couldn’t think what type John bought.

_What type of milk do  
you buy?_

_SH_

 

His text was met with the almost immediate response of

 

_Rack off_

_JW_

Sherlock considered sending John humiliating text messages about how terribly dull his parents must be if he was replying to texts with lightning speed, decided against it, and didn’t eat until John came home.

John returned home on time, and Sherlock was still in the same position as he was five days ago. There was a half eaten packet of arrowroot biscuits on the table, but other than that, there was no evidence Sherlock had eaten since they went out to dinner.  
‘Is that all you’ve eaten?’ John asked, his doctor’s alarm apparent in his voice.  
Sherlock followed John’s finger and his eyes landed on the biscuits. ‘There was no milk.’ He replied curtly.  
John swore quietly. ‘You stubborn git! Did you do this out of spite?’  
Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s –‘  
‘Get dressed, we’re going shopping. Now.’ John ordered, and almost pushed Sherlock into his room.  
Sherlock stood in front of the milk fridge yet again, but this time John was by his side. John covered his eyes with one hand, and held the other in front of him. He picked up a carton at random and showed it to Sherlock.  
‘We buy this milk now. Look at it. Commit it to memory.’  
Sherlock nodded, and held onto the milk like it was a lifeline.

A week later, when John returned home, arms full of takeout, he didn’t expect there to be milk in the fridge. He put off the disappointment buy boiling the jug and preparing the pot. He liked the delayed approach, it gave him more reason to yell at Sherlock. ‘I’ve just made a whole pot of tea’ was a better argument than ‘I was going to make a pot of tea’. John opened the fridge door, but instead of the empty carton he expected, there were five full ones. Sherlock was shamming at sleeping on the lounge, and John had to restrain his almost childish giggle.  
 _Sherlock doesn’t deserve the satisfaction._ He thought to himself, and grinned.


End file.
